Tied up to the bulkhead at a park in Fort Lauderdale, I was ready to head out to the Bahamas single handed on my O'day 25...ready in the sense that everything was working properly. I waited there two days for a weather window to open up. A park ranger paid a visit to the Knot Limited late that evening. He told me that this wasn't a place one could tie up to overnight. Fortunately, early the next morning a fleeting weather window presented itself. Winds were forecasted to come out of the east for one day only...not particularly a great forecast, but much more favorable than the strong northeast winds that are predominant in this season.

I've traveled from New York to Key West on this boat without incident; well, without major incident anyway. A Gulf Stream crossing is not a typical passage. I'd been told how the northerly waters of the Stream could make for an extremely uncomfortable trip. Any wind direction that has an "N" in it will blow against the current and stand the water right up.

Having traveled from Sarasota via the Okeechobee Waterway during the last eight days, I felt that Port Everglades Inlet was far enough south to minimize the time I actually spent in the Stream. The constant, driving force of the Gulf Stream waters will move you 2 to 3 knots north during every hour you are affected by it, period. I envisioned the Stream "hooking" me to my destination.

With the brief change in the weather and the law breathing down my neck, it was time to move out. The only things in my way were apprehension and uncertainty.

At 1630, I left the flocks of Green Parakeets that paid frequent visits to the park. At 1700 I was under the 17th Street Bridge and headed out. The sunlight disappeared rather quickly. The stars were, of course, magnificently bright and the wind was light out of the east as forecasted; light enough that I ran the engine at idle speeds.

My course was to West End, Grand Bahama Island. I planned on clearing customs there and heading over to the Abacos Islands to do some exploring. Everything was going well until the wind shifted back around to the NE. At 0200, 4 to 6 foot swells started to present themselves. In no time, I was into my foul weather gear, life harness on and tethered in.

At 0800, still on course, I saw land. I let out a big breath of relief! Soon thereafter, I was out of the Gulf Stream. Schools of flying fish were breaking into flight all around the LTD. The water was bluer than I had ever seen...the kind of blue you'd color the ocean if you were a child with an assortment of crayons. The depths, less than a mile off shore, range from shoals to more than 10,000 feet.

The old Jack Tar Marina is now Old Bahama Bay, and as I approached it I was greeted by an old motor vessel washed up on the jetties. I was so excited to have sailed to another country, I forgot about the Gulf Stream. In all my excitement I forgot to put out my yellow Q flag. I had bought the "Quarantine" flag and the Bahama courtesy flag several weeks earlier, after having read up on traveling there by boat. Of course, I put them in a special spot so that I would be sure not to loose them. That usually translates to a spot where they are not readily located...that is, not lost but not found---until the very last minute. Or, as Yogi Berra might say, "I found it in the last placed I looked!

Once I was tied up to the brand new bulkhead at Old Bahama Bay, the dock boy handed me several papers stapled together, to fill out before I went into the customs office. Some of the information was redundant and some was archaic. But far be it for me to criticize the workings of a foreign government when ours is, at times, wacky! I was simply content with being there.

The Customs Official helped me out in filling in the information that I missed, while 5-pin bowling played on his television at high volume, to overpower the noise from the air conditioner. When the paperwork was completed he said, "One hundred dollars please."

The books that I had, published last year, informed me that a cruising permit was $10 and a fishing permit was an additional $15. I asked the officer about this and he referred me to a memo taped to the wall. On July 1, 1999 the customs regulations were amended by an insertion. Basically the insertion combines the cruising and fishing permit to be included in a new, cash or travelers check only, $100 fee.

Next it was time to call home to let my family know of my safe arrival. This was easier said than done. I tried making collect calls from the marina office. They wouldn't go through. Apparently the last hurricane caused a large fiber optic cable to rise enough out of its buried resting place that a passing boat severed it. The woman there suggested that I visit the Betelco building a mile up the road. (Betelco is the Bahamas telephone company). They even lent me a bicycle to do so. The Betelco office was closed and I thought I'd pedal a little further in hopes of finding a telephone that might let me get through to the States.

Piles of conch, no less than 6 feet high, lined the road like garbage heaps. I rode past several churches housed in residential structures and was surrounded by poverty. Still, I felt an energy that superseded the repression that these people must experience. Every person that I passed shared with me a sincere wave and a warm grin.

Away from the shore line the conchs were not piled up but rather scattered on the side of the road. Fast food containers were mixed in with the littered shells. I rode on further, determined to find some quick eats and a telephone. With each bend in the road I was hopeful that of finding civilization. Instead, each one of these curves yielded another 2 to 3 mile stretch of pavement. After 15 miles of exercise along a barren road, I began to lose hope of reaching either a phone or a restaurant.

Then, while passing a small stretch of houses, I spotted someone and asked how much further it was to town. The woman told me that Freeport was about 12 miles away. I thanked her and turned the bike back towards the marina. With the about-face, I was traveling into 15 to 25 knot winds. Feeling the lack of sleep and food, I quickly tired of the ride. I began to alternate between walking and riding the bicycle. Luckily for me, while I was walking, a pickup truck passed and, assuming that I had a flat tire, offered me a ride.

Back at the marina I kept trying the telephone to no avail. Realizing that if I don't get a call through the Coast Guard would be notified, I camped out next to the phone all night. The next day, observing my dilemma, another cruiser gave me a Betelco calling card with enough time left on it for a quick call to the States. Using this method, I was able to get through. Ironically, just then the Coast Guard called the marina on the VHF to see if a Michael, traveling alone on a sailboat cleared customs. I was on the phone less than 2 feet away.

With that taken care of I was able to concentrate on my explorations. I planned to get to Sale Cay (Cayo is Spanish for Key) and over to the Abacos. The weather disagreed with me and held me hostage at the marina.

Old Bahama Bay is the child of a Midwestern land developer who bought the depressed Jack Par Marina. He is currently renovating the 2000+ acre resort. The employees there were extremely friendly and helpful.

Still unable to travel because of the wind speeds and direction, I opted to take a bus into the towns of Freeport and Lucaya. Port Lucaya consisted of a large hotel with construction on both sides. Across the street was a small shopping lot also owned by the hotel. Freeport had a similar setting, with the addition of grocery stores and shops catering to the locals. By afternoon, I had seen enough and was headed back.

Days went by and mother nature hadn't changed her mind about letting me go to the Abacos. With the cost of dockage, $28 dollars a day, my cruising kitty was being chiseled away. I decided that I needed at least to attempt to move on. Midday during that travel day, the wind picked up. This time the wind gusted to 35 knots. Waves broke on the bow as I crawled into the wind. There were few to no markers, and one must travel with an eye on the depth, reading the water by its color.

The only thing that I saw were sheets of water slapping me in the face. My dodger consisted of polarized sunglasses. With the salt deposits layering on my glasses, I could barely see the boat that I was standing on, let alone the depth of the water. I resorted to huddling low in the cockpit with a close eye on the instruments. My close eye watched my GPS go from working to not. At 1530 I was looking for shelter from the wind. Mangrove Cay was nearby and I thought I'd drop a hook there. The Cay provided no shelter and I was bounced around on anchor all night.

I kept my senses and exercised good judgment. In the morning I headed back. I should have never attempted to move in that direction. The encrusted salt on the sail cover looked like snow! The rest of the boat and everything on it was also well seasoned with a fine grade of powdery salt. The opposing winds packed such a wallop that I was lucky my situation didn't get out of control!

Once again at Old Bahama Bay, I waited. It was too cloudy and too cool for swimming. More days passed. My remaining allotted travel time had dwindled down to less than a week. It was soon time to plan my return passage. A weather window allowed me to move southward to Bimini. From there I would be able to cross the Stream in the daylight hours, an idea that greatly pleased me.

Upon arrival, I found Bimini to be more like what I had expected of the Bahamas. In 15 feet of water, I could see my shadow on the sand, almost as if there were no water at all. I pulled into the harbor in Alice Town, North Bimini and tied up to Weech's Marina. I treated myself to a sausage and egg breakfast at Big Bob's next door. The village is small and quaint. It seems that after walking, golf carts are the most popular means of transportation. There was also a seaplane that buzzed in and out of the bay. I even caught a glimpse of a water taxi taking people to South Bimini and to what appeared to be deserted islands.

While there, I paid a visit to Hemmingway's old haunt, the Anglers' Bar. Vintage photos of his era covered the walls. I also found a small place called The End Of The Universe which was another drinking establishment. It had undergarments signed and tacked to the walls and ceiling. The floor consisted of raked sand.

I stayed just that one day, as I still had the weather in my favor. In the morning, with rays jumping out of the water, I set sail for Miami. The display on my GPS was half there, and the unit emitted a steady beep. Reading just the right side of the GPS and muffling the insistent tone, I was still able to use it to help me with the crossing, a trip that lasted less than 8 hours with small waves at my stern.